CROSSING THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS I stopped to watch the little children pushing their toy sailboats in the fountain. There weren’t many adults around and those present showed no interest in me, which for once came as a relief rather than a disappointment or a blow to my ego. A boy of about eight with oddly wide-set eyes frowned at me in a puzzled way as though trying to place me; he elbowed the frail lad next to him, who looked at me and shrugged, indifferent, and they both turned their attention back to their boats, relaxed and happy in a way I only dimly remembered from my own benighted, violent childhood. The breeze that billowed in those toy sails was cool on my forehead, and I wandered over to a bench in the shade and opened up the Herald Tribune to the crossword.
I was well into it when to my annoyance I felt my phone vibrating in my trouser pocket. The display identified the caller as my agent, and I came very close to not answering, but there was always the off chance he had something interesting, so I picked up.
“Hello, Bunny,” I said.
“Don’t call me that.”
“What’s up, Ted?”
He heaved a long sigh. “You’re up for a part on Blindsided. Guest shot with potential follow-ups.”
“What’s Blindsided? I never heard of it.”
“It’s a detective who’s blinded in an accident, and afterward she can see who did that week’s crime.”
“She sees it? Thought she was blind.”
“She sees it in her mind, okay?”
“Network or cable?”
“Network.”
“So even if my character gets to fuck the star, it’ll all be off-screen. Who’s the detective?”
“Mary Margaret Casterlin. Jesus, even if you don’t read the trades you should at least watch television so you know this stuff.”
“Really? She’s doing TV?”
“Hadn’t done a feature in four years when she got the offer. And she’s a client, which is how I got the strings pulled to get you the offer. So you need to be back here in a week.”
I thought about it. Mary Margaret Casterlin was a rare beauty and a truly gifted actress, and despite the fact that she was well known to be happily married to a real estate mogul from Santa Barbara and mother to a litter of four charming moppets, she was also strongly reputed to be an adherent of the “eatin’ ain’t cheatin’” school of thought on marital fidelity, particularly when on location away from home for more than a night or two. My old pal Dan Needles had shot a movie of Mary Margaret’s a few years back, a romantic comedy set in San Francisco, and when she discovered that her co-star (no, I won’t name him) was uninterested in the ladies except when the paparazzi were around, she approached Dan for a bit of commiseration. Mary Margaret spent the next five weeks sucking Dan’s cock in her trailer, in his trailer, in the grip truck, and twice on sets closed for the night. He spoke of those blowjobs with genuine awe and said that even a garden-variety handjob from her was better than full-blown intercourse with most women. And though in all that time he never gave up hope that she would acquiesce and allow him entry into her pussy, every makeout session ended in the same manner, with him ejaculating down her throat (or, as indicated, onto the back of her hand).
“I just happen to think that’s for marriage only,” she told him once when he pressed her about her reasons for refusing normal intercourse with him. “I would never do that to my husband.”
So there was that prospect to consider. Plus there was the fact that the role might be recurring, which might lead to something regular on another show, which might eventually get me my own show, and by that I mean a prime-time gig, not another fucking daytime soap. There was a lot to be said for the deal.
And yet.
“I can’t do it, Ted.”
“What the fuck do you mean you can’t do it?”
“I’ve got a project I’m working on over here at the moment. A lead role.”
“In what?”
“It’s too soon to talk about it.”
“Too soon? I’m your fucking agent, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’m developing it myself, Bunny.”
I could hear him slowly exhaling on the other end of the line. I was sure his face was getting red, and equally sure that some subordinate was going to get verbally reamed as soon as I hung up.
“Listen up. I stuck my neck out with another client to get you this gig. You make damn sure you’re back here in a week.”
“Goodbye, Bunny.” I hung up, and as soon as I did I felt a little guilty about that last “Bunny,” which for all I knew might cause him to hemorrhage. An old lover of his, a set designer named Giorgio, kept referring to Ted as “Bunny” at a dinner party, and ever since I’ve been tormenting him with it.
Sometimes, when I really think about it, I can be a bit of an asshole.